Beware the fury of a patient man
by colemole519
Summary: Colin Randolph gave everything in service of his country and was betrayed. This is the story of his reckoning.


The ramshackle Ville of Shirat loomed ahead, its earthen colored dwellings blending in with the bare landscape. One could almost sense the pervasive reek rising from the crude homes; a mix of animal feces intermingled with people living in close quarters, especially the Humvee filled with 5 rangers. Hoo-ah and all that happy horseshit. Blaring from its purely functional interior rose the harsh voice of James Hetfield, " Hush little baby don't say a word." " So sergeant what are we REALLY getting in Muhala?" asked Private Williamson, a man recently arrived at Camp Puff Adder and the unit's designated "cherry" troop. Staff Sergeant Collin Randolph, the senior man in the group and thus the driver gave a knowing smile and said, " Well Private what do you think we're getting?" The man answered, " Provisions".

The light-hearted silence passed slowly. Then a mischievous grin lit up the young man's still zit-ridden face. "I thought the bases out here were alcohol free." "Of course they are." He responded then focused on driving. Despite the men's joking demeanor, they were deadly serious, killer professionals formed from some of the most grueling training on the planet. To Randolph they were still just kids however. This was in part due to their young age, lack of battle experience (this was their first tour) and patina of invincibility due to their elite status. They were passing the village square now; a dusty patch of ground with a well in the center.

The locals out in the open waved. The man on the 50. returned the gesture. A game of soccer was going on in a stinking alleyway. The stretched bow of tension loosened some. It now appeared that they were home free." Staff Sergeant, I get the Bacardi and Jessica Biel?" (She had recently visited the FOB as a part of a USO tour.). " Don't push it corporal, there's no way I'm letting you get a piece of ass that fine without a fight." Randolph responded in a mock serious tone. The song had now switched to Pantera's " Cowboy's from hell." The village edge was approaching.. " Check point cleare…" these were the last words to escape the Privates lips. At that precise moment the world exploded.

2 150mm artillery shells buried twenty feet down turned the Humvee into burning scrap metal. The first thing that came to his senses was the suffocating stench of gunpowder. Randolph blearily tumbled out of the destroyed vehicle gasping for air still unaware of his fractured ribs. It took him a few seconds to become aware of what had happened. He stumbled over to the vehicle his heart frantically pounding.

After 5 minutes of desperately seeking pulses he realized the outcome; the blood soaked faces stared out at him their glazed eyes proclaiming the effectiveness of the IED. The supersonic crack of bullets caused him to dive for cover. The door that he had been leaning on a second ago became perforated from machine gun fire. Leaning into the vehicle's cab quickly he retrieved his SAW and began searching for the source of the harassing fire. Nicking off the weapon's safety he dashed towards a cluster of mud huts where the flash of gunfire proclaimed the enemy position.

Reaching the edge of the dwellings, he searched for targets. His patience was soon rewarded. An AK-47 muzzle poked out between two outbuildings soon followed by its anxious owner. Leveling the weapon on the man's fearful face he opened fire. His face degenerated into red pulp and he fell to the ground after performing a jigging death dance. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he warily searched for the remaining insurgents. Edging out into the open for a brief moment spouts of dirt rose in front of him, the most prolific ammunition ever used by men to kill other men, the trusty 7.62x39.

Rapidly changing magazines, he combat rolled into the mud hut. Crouched as far into a corner as possible, a terrified mother and her children looked at him their eyes wide in fear. He appeared to be an apparition of hell due to his dust and blood covered appearance. He gestured with his hand for them to remain quiet. A shadow edged by the outer door of the hut. Randolph shifted closer, anxious and worried about the family's fate. The man, detecting movement, opened fire, pin cushioning the hut's wall, letting in the harsh sun, missing by a wide margin. Then he spotted the family. Moving in closer he gave Randolph the perfect target. Barely did his bellows exit his throat when Randolph's KA-BAR buried itself in his jugular.

He slid to the ground like a sack of potatoes, a perplexed expression on his face. Randolph looked mournfully at the growing blood puddle and thought this is no sight for women or children. The suppressed rage banged on the wrought iron bars of his self-control. It took all of his strength not to empty a clip into the thing's supine form. Retrieving his blade, he gave a parting wave to the shell-shocked family then re-entered the fray, rage as well as adrenaline coursing through his veins. Barely had he gone 30 yards when he heard running footsteps coming closer and closer. He slid against the rough-hewn wall, the pile of excrement next to him not even entering his mind. He allowed himself a quick glance. Three insurgents 2 by 1 cover formation he rapidly denoted. Pulling a fragmentation grenade from his bandolier, he waited until their hushed fearful conversation was close enough to ascertain single words. Pulling the pin, he let the weapon fly. They merely had time to yell in warning in their lilting tongue when it detonated, transforming them into a butcher's mess of mutilated flesh and tissue.

Running as if all the demons of hell were chasing him, he leapt over the supine forms and dove out of the way as machine gun fire kicked up clots of dust. Turning with a speed he didn't know he had, he nearly cut the man in two with a devastating burst from the SAW. His objective was now in sight, obviously the village elder's home due to its stone construction and still intact façade. He advanced cautiously, wary of any more emissaries of Allah. Sensing none, he sprinted toward the house, kicking in the door with all the force he could muster. He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and was firing before he even knew it, the AK wielding door guard turned into bloody confetti before his eyes. Panting desperately, he swung his weapon from side to side, the dull throb coming from his ribs now just becoming apparent. He was apparently standing in the sitting room of the home.

Letting his eyes adjust, he heard the low mutter of conversation emanating from behind a slate gray steel door. Ducking out into the deepening dusk, he threw a flash bang into the house. Its light, muted and ghostly flashed through the building. Moving with all the power he could muster, Randolph slammed into the door. It fell to the ground as the hinges gave and he saw an odd sight. Six befuddled men seated around a low table, in various stages of shock, apparently having an evening tea. All at once, they began shouting and gesticulating at the infidel in their presence eyes widened in fear and anger. The wiry jackal faced man in the center appeared to be leading the barrage.

" Shut up!" he screamed, the dull throb in his ribs now a screaming banshee of agony. They shut up in jig time. Moving over to frisk them, his SAW leveled in case of trouble, he saw a man on the end of the table reach for something. " Stop it!" "Put your hands where I can see them!" These words had no effect whatsoever and he continued. The others, following suit, began to shout once more. Reaching down…The anger, frustration and sorrow, suppressed now for so long, burst from him in an outpouring of hot lead. The instant before he fired would be burned into his memory forever. Faces clenched in fury, others in astonishment, the second that plunged his life into hell…then it was gone…reason deserted and the trigger finger took hold. Dropping heavily to the ground like life size dominos they went, falling in rapid succession. The click of his dry firing weapon brought him back to reality. Dust and the aroma of cordite wafted in the thick air as the sun shined a parting gleam on the scene of slaughter.

He stood in numb horror; weapon hanging limply by his side. He walked over to the bloodstained bodies, finding no weapons on them. Cruel irony, sadness and disgust rose in his throat and he rushed outside to vomit. On the bare ground he puked then dry retched until his insides hurt laying on the ground in a daze, weeping. After a few minutes, discipline took hold; somewhat. Calling Camp Puff Adder on his radio. " Randolph where and the hell are you and your team?" "We've been trying to reach you for the last 40 minutes. " "Our Humvee was destroyed by an IED on the outskirts of Shirat." " All except for me died." "I then engaged the said hostiles, killing 11. "his voice jumped on the last statement. The once livid Colonel's voice softened. "We've got a support team coming in to pull you out. " " Sit tight and try not to get killed." Over.

Walking back to the dead house, he re-entered the blasted room. In the midst of the melee ten minutes before, he had noticed something. Underneath the low table was a pile of documents. Shuffling through them, he saw that they were written in Arabic interposed with script that appeared to be Mandarin. Without giving a second thought, he placed the papers in his uniform and waited to be extracted. Five minutes later engines roared and the squeal of brakes echoed through the deserted streets. Walking out of the place that had effectively ended his military career, he numbly climbed into the Humvee. High above the scrubland, a sickle moon leered.

A regular army trooper sitting in the passenger seat, Corporal Johnson by his nametag blurted, " What the hell happened in there?" Meeting the man's eyes in a stare like a physical assault, he replied, " You'll find out soon enough." After that the ride back to base was a quiet one. In the recesses of his heart, sadness now roosted. 3 good men killed by goddamn cowards, three friends gone, the black anger far from quenched. Glancing back, the Corporal saw the man's hands clenched in white knuckled rage, his face a blank mask. He grew angry as well. Fighting an enemy you rarely if ever saw, your friends being killed with cowards' weapons. It could test the resolve of even the most patient and professional of soldiers. I hope you get off light; you deserve it he wanted to say.

You could tell they were agency. The troops assigned perimeter security, their unmarked fatigues devoid of badges of rank or citations from various campaigns. All they knew was that a Ranger had gone batshit and slaughtered some unarmed civilians. Then why were they here? The question kept running through their minds. After the vehicle carrying the bereaved Ranger left, the CIA descended on the house. Sweeping the room with expert precision, they searched for data. This was standard operating procedure for when these events occurred. Jokingly they called their investigative unit the "Men in Black". Consummate professionals, they sorted out only the worst and most compromising cases. They had now moved over to the site of the massacre and were combing the dead bodies.

A female soldier from the 5th Special Forces Group properly schooled in the intricate ways of Muslim burial stood by. On the fifth body, they made a discovery that made the head of the investigative team's skin crawl with fear. An ID that didn't belong in a shitty little Ville in Afghanistan, the senior man noticed. Didn't belong anywhere at all for that matter. One thing was for certain; it was going to be one long night at Langley. The roar of the engine soothed him. A beautiful blonde sat in the seat beside him and a glistening ribbon of macadam stretched to a horizon teeming with possibilities. He was in peak physical condition and felt as if he could lick his weight in wildcats. The Mclaren was pushing 160 now well on its way to 200, a speed that was exhilarating in its danger and lack of availability to the common man. The last detail made him smile. Henry Morgan was a happy man. His stock, one of the largest on Wall Street, had just gone up an astronomical 20 points. Unheard of in the volatile bear market that was plaguing the international stock exchange. Unheard of in a good market as well.

In fact, Morgan's monetary worth was measured at $4,000,000,910, helped mightily by "international cooperation" with power corporations uninhibited by government regulation. He knew the number by heart having checked it just 20 minutes before. Slowing down to a leisurely speed of 50 upon entering the Manhattan city limits, he dropped off the model at her apartment, admiring her traffic stopping rear end and beautiful legs. I'll see you later tonight, he thought excitedly then turned his formidable mind to other far more important things. He had a call to make. Five minutes later, he pulled into Morgan Int. Trading, a glistening needle of vertiginous height and art deco construction that harked back to more straightforward times. His father, bless his soul had left out elevators, believing that they merely aided and abetted chronic laziness, a character flaw that he abhorred above all others. He wouldn't tolerate it in his sweatshops and he wouldn't tolerate amongst his white collar professionals. Besides, his employees had nothing to complain about due to a starting salary of $100,000 or more. Walking up the 20 stories to his palatial office, he locked the door and informed his secretary Doris that he was not to be disturbed. Half a world away, a phone began to ring.

Panting heavily, the last 800 meters of his run approached. Running as fast as he could despite his burning lungs he heaved for breath behind his white surgeons mask, the polluted air not making things any easier. A green city bus was filling with its early morning passengers and they eyed the jogger with curiosity and amusement. A normal citizen would receive jeers and catcalls but it would suicidal to insult this man so they stayed silent. Nearly half were smoking Jin noted with displeasure.

As he neared the winding uphill path that was the entryway to his home, he sprinted hard; and finished having trouble standing. From atop the bluff, Beijing lay spread out in a panoramic display. To the north, the shining pinnacles of the business district towered sublime and glittering. In this vicinity, the Club District pulsated with frenetic energy. To the south the leafy avenues of the middle class lay spread out in a sprinkling of green amongst the gray-blanketed landscape. The Forbidden City stood austere and unattainable, flanked by the Politburo offices. And to the east and west, the dun colored slum district, barely perceptible under the wall of smoke and other industrial output being generated by the factories dominating the horizon. His thoughts shifted to his life in those narrow shadowy streets where blood and feces mixed freely.

Rail thin, he his father and two brothers had fought to feed their family. With fists and shovels, they had plied a hopeless existence. First at the coal plants, then as street sweepers then finally as street hoods as a last resort. Jin had watched as his father, a man once brawny with laughing eyes and filled with tireless wit, had withered and died slowly as the weight of the world grew insurmountably heavy on his shoulders. The small cough that plagued him for months became a wheezing hack, and then he had taken to puking up blood. He had perished on the New Year and in the midst of a sleeting rain; Jin and his two brothers had buried him in a coal pit.

The happiness was slowly ground out of their hearts like a file over worn. Their mother tried to keep them from becoming bestial and cruel like the other boys now grown too harsh men. She had fought so hard, he thought, tears coming to his eyes. His brothers were taken from him in a turf war. He had watched as the bullets tore them into meaningless pieces on that grim night, the worst of his life. He was 18 and had buried his whole family by then.

The utopian ideals of the Little Red Book would be dead to him forever. Life had become a jest something to slog through, something to suffer through. Then, wandering through the wide avenues before the Forbidden City, waiting to die, he had seen his true calling. The soldiers gathered before the austere and storied structure had mesmerized him. Not mincing in stride or wheedling in tone, they radiated good health and a pride that he had never seen before. Feeling as excited as a young lover, he had rushed to enlist in The People's Army. After two years of grueling training, he had become a man. The severe and unrelenting discipline supplied by the drill instructors was an addiction to him.

He trained harder, ran faster, held himself to higher standards then his comrades, his dogged determination and natural toughness finally supplied with the perfect outlet. The results showed. After merely one year in the service, he possessed lieutenant's stars and was known as a natural leader with unique strategic cunning. By his second year, he was a member of the crack Black Star Unit, called such because of this rakish addition to their uniforms. By his fourth year, he commanded a regiment and had spearheaded the crushing of the foolish Tianamen Square demonstration. He had also killed one of the Socialist pretenders of Russia's elite Spetsnaz in brutal hand to hand fighting during a border skirmish. He wasn't fanatical just pragmatic to the core. Any peals of ideological lightning had been ruthlessly ground out of him in the slums. Duty was his god and he worshipped it with the utmost attentiveness.

This was why, at the unprecedented age of 42, he held a Central Committeeman's position and the ear of some of the most powerful men in the world. That and his vision. He hated the west. He hated their glitz. He hated their goddamned arrogance. Like little children the western powers followed the great blundering colossus of the United States. This is why he conspired with the worst of the stinking scum. For the surest path to a supine America was through the blind ambition of their wealthiest citizens. Almost on cue, his cell phone began to ring."Right on time, well done." Jin answered. "Time is money." Morgan replied, his voice patronizing. Before Morgan could say anything further, Jin cut in, "I have some disturbing news." Letting the implications of the statement hang, he waited until Morgan responded, "And what would that be?" "We found a very disconcerting link in Afghanistan." "After a Ranger patrol was ambushed on the outskirts of Shirat, the lone survivor engaged the insurgents killing them all."

This bit of information Jin had looked upon with appraisal, respect towards the man's battle skill. " He then commenced to barge in on an evening tea after he was fired upon by the door guard." " By and by he ended up slaying all six unarmed men." "One of them was an operative of ours from SNAPDRAGON." It took Morgan but a minute to respond. And when he did his voice was considerably weaker. " I do believe that we are bankrolling that operation quite handsomely." "A pause ensued as Morgan connected the dots. " Do you have the documents?" he finally responded. "No, that is why I'm calling.""How do you intend to deal with this?" Morgan asked, his great day looking grimmer by the minute. " We will work that out tomorrow." Jin said then hung up. "Morgan noticed that his hands were shaking.

Cold reality hit him with full force. If this is compromised…the implications…Forcing himself to think of other things he focused on how to handle this latest threat to his empire. After several minutes of intense speculation, an idea came to mind. As he weighed the options, the better it sounded. Humiliation. Trevor Larson was a eagle-eyed intensely focused man of 21. Just graduated from Brown with honors, he had an ear to the ground knack for ferreting out a good story and a fury talent with words that had put even his college professors' essays to shame. On paper he was larger than life. Off it he was just a scrawny man of average height with a shock of brown hair and a voice that had never been graced with the timbre of a speaker. His friends, also writers, behind his back often remarked that it sounded like a cockatoo in distress.

The day had started off superbly; on CNN a rioting mob had ransacked the Qwest communication's center in New Delhi. An op-ed of great power could come out of this, he thought almost licking his chops with anticipation, a steaming cup of Turkish coffee shaking the cobwebs from his mind, the cogs beginning to turn. Today he would play the fiddle of public opinion on a nativist cast of mind. Outside his chicly styled modern apartment overlooking Central Park, the sun peeked out onto the horizon, setting the jagged New York skyline ablaze. At exactly 7:00 AM, Larson pulled out of the underground parking area, his Mercedes purring with restrained power.

As he drove, the day's possibilities whirred around his mind. He didn't notice the inconspicuous black sedan that was consistently two cars back, always distant yet always close. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the New York Post and parked in his customary place. "Yes it's him," the man in the sedan said into the phone, his eyes mirrored with black aviator sunglasses while his partner, taciturn as usual sat in silence. " Ok then go up and woo him." "Wait a little bit though, let him get settled in some." the dexterous voice said with a note of finality. Not intending on waiting without some form of sustenance however, they drove to a nearby McDonalds for some breakfast. Little did they know that as they sat eating their grease-lathered meal, an Asian man clad in an expensive suit was carefully observing them. This had to be watched carefully and this drear nondescript man was armed with a Makarov and reflexes like oiled silk.

If this was fumbled in any way, he had been told quite clearly what had to be done. Morgan, being the chameleon that he was, understood and had accepted this second out as a matter of necessity though not without some consternation. Larson was seated at his big mahogany desk, trying to shake the first vicious assault of writers block when his buzzer sounded. "What is it?" he snapped. His secretary responded with forced cheerfulness." There are some government men hear who are adamant on speaking to you." The undercurrent of hidden laughter in her voice infuriated him. (It was no secret that his insane deadlines and hard-charging approach to every story had made him some enemies in the office). " Immediately." Hurriedly preparing an alibi in his mind, he responded. "Send them in." As he opened the door and the black-suited men entered, his mind was running at a dead sprint. Had one of his stories dredged up some abyssal conspiracy? Had he slandered someone he wasn't supposed to? Had he committed some act of treason? All these questions and more dashed through his mind along with the underlying loathing of the establishment that loved to discredit journalists.

Staying as composed as possible, he started to speak when the talkative suit cut in. " I am Special Agent Phillip Dodge and this is my associate, Special Agent Dustin Joss." Silence reigned for several minutes then Dodge said, "Mr. Larson, we haven't come here to arrest you or disappear you or anything of that sort." He said, grinning. Larson, eyes narrowed in distrust, took the statement with a grain of salt. "Then why are you here?" "Why are you seated in front of my desk making me look like a silly ass?" before Trevor could continue his tirade, Dodge cut in. "Calm down now." He said admonishingly, laughing inwardly at what a petulant little child this man really was. "We're here because of a man that has perpetrated acts that have put his country in an infamous fix." The solemn words hung heavy in the room. "We're here because of a certain Collin Randolph."

He then launched into the spiel about the slaughter of the unarmed elders, the repercussions of his actions, etc. etc. To top things off, he added the $100,000 reward for the completion of the story. Finished, he waited for the assessment of the sales pitch. Eyes shrewd, Larson asked," Why are you offering to pay me to write a story besmirching the establishment that you have helped prop up for so long?" "That bullshit speech about honor and duty and sacrifice I don't buy for a minute and isn't worth one iota of my time." Leaning forward, voice low, he said " Someone found something out that they shouldn't of, didn't they?" "They got scared and hired the most capable person to do it, just instead of a gun they wanted a pen." "Cleaner I guess."" Mr. Larson, to be quite frank I loathe journalists." Dodge responded. "I think they are blowhards that make my job harder than it should be." "But they're a byproduct of a free society and that is what we're all fighting to protect here." "There is no conspiracy here." "This man committed an international crime." "He needs to be made an example of." "And the best and most forthright way to do that is through a news story." " You were the only one in this office who knew Arabic to an extent." " You also had a rudimentary grasp of Islamic customs." "One thing is certain, none of us want a book written about it." "We feel this needs to be brought out into the open, and fast."

His stubborn façade shaken by this apparent bare bones truth, he said. "I'll think about it." Getting up to leave, Dodge handed Larson a business card. "You have 5 hours to respond with a yes or no." "If you don't, this scoop is someone else's." His last words still ringing in Larson's ears, the feds stepped out into the roaring newsroom. Just as they began to walk into the elevator, Dodge's pager began to ring. Answering it, a breathless voice stated." I'll do it." "Good." He responded, a smile coming to his face. Giving Larson the directions to the assignment, he blessed his ability to lie fluently. My first international assignment! Trevor was giddy with excitement.

The story that he had been waiting for, vulpine and powerful, a shot at a Pulitzer! Ignoring the penetrating stares of his coworkers, he informed his boss about the assignment and the five day sabbatical from office work. As he ran out to his car, he couldn't keep a grin off his face. The drive to McGuire AFB passed in a calm blur. One hour later he was seated in a Galaxy transport filled with resting soldiers about to travel to a war that was little cared about in the States. Over the Atlantic he looked at the slumbering passengers. Just like me, just leaner and more dangerous.

He felt uneasiness at what he had agreed to do. After several minutes of psychic wrestling he had more or less come to a decision. I'm here. I might as well do what I've agreed to. I can draw my own opinions when I arrive. Still, he mused as he watched the gray ocean flashed by, something didn't feel right. The Damascene bazaar emanated a wall of boisterous activity and thundering noise that would have been a liability on any other day. But today the crowds were a boon, the barterers a shield.

Nin knew he was being hunted. He could tell from how they had expertly scanned him while feigning to read a newspaper, in their false nonchalance as they climbed off the plane at the Damascus International Airport. Skirting a bawling rug dealer, he kept his eyes out for a nondescript van from which they would attempt to nab and drug him. With over 20 years of fieldwork under his belt, from the killing fields of Cambodia to Bosnia, he knew what the final outcome would be. Two days later, after an intense interrogation, he would be found in a gutter, shot between the eyes, another supposed victim of ethnic violence, so easy with the recent fighting in the streets. Not on my watch. He rapidly turned down a sparsely traveled side street, feet moving faster of their own accord. The tall one, fifty feet back and rapidly gaining, turned in pursuit. He walked straight into a devastating dragon punch that nearly shattered his cheekbone.

Spitting blood and curses, he reached for his Glock while releasing a flurry of distorted blows. Nin simply stepped aside and with practiced skill, shattered the man's wrist and ferociously elbowed the swelling face wound. The assailant fell to the ground, finally unconscious. Eyeing the man's supine form, Nin considered shooting him. But some dicta of honor would not allow him to kill a man in cold blood. While relieving him of his firearm, radio and ID, Nin noticed something. A chill ran through him. Not the ID but what it said. Oh my god…he's CIA too… Before he had time to reflect on this new and disturbing development, the phut! phut! of silenced bullets caused him to dive for cover.

Kicking in a door, he dashed up the winding stairs. Ignoring the stunned and shouting locals, Nin glanced through the metal bars of the window, hunting for the men determined to kill him, he heard hushed conversation in the stairwell that he had just climbed. "Don't tell them I was here." He said silently in flawless Arabic to the wide-eyed residents then climbed through the window and onto the flat roof. Browning Hi-Power handy, he moved to the other side of the building. He knew quite well that they would give him up for any sum of money. The Syrians were not the Pashtun, who wouldn't under any circumstances sell out a guest. Why? He thought.

What have I done to deserve this? He had never experienced such treachery, not even in his tour of duty fighting the Khmer Rouge. When an asset becomes too rootless… his calculating inner voice whispered. It had seemed odd, he had to admit. Always a roving operative, he had been sent on more international missions as of late. This was supposed to be a routine assassination; a major cadre leader had been pinpointed in Damascus. And you never were CIA…you were a killer for hire…judging the distance between homes to be jumpable, he leaped; throwing his whole body into the effort. Landing in a combat roll, he searched for a ladder from which to descend from the apartment. Finding one, he descended rapidly, eyes alert. You are being hunted by the CIA.

The assets they have at their command are immense. Knowing a commercial airport to be out of the question, he moved liquidly through the crowds, seeing guns everywhere, enemies all encompassing. He knew of a local airfield on the edge of the city limits and its proprietor, a genial man under deep cover. If I can make it there alive…What a godforsaken place, Trevor thought forlornly. Outside the Humvee's window, the sere scrubland flashed by. The baking heat pushed itself through the purely functional interior of the vehicle, and he tried his hardest not to complain. His attempts to start conversation had failed miserably after his guides had found out who he was.

Press were held in almost universal disdain because of their annoying habit of getting kidnapped and being overly prying. Even more so with these individuals. Due to their elite contractor status and battle-hardened ways, there might as well have been a steel wall between Trevor his escorts. But the drive was a long one and he was able to force some grudging conversation out of the bearded man sitting next to him. Even though, Trevor noted, he as well as the others seemed to thrum with nervous energy, a current of alertness forced from lessons learned the hard way. And, he had noted; they were armed to the teeth as well. As he made idle chitchat, he kept thinking, " One more day of this and then I'll be back in New York." He didn't know how they could stand the isolation and the heat. Thirty minutes in country, and he had been sweating like a pig. And then there was the matter of the camel spiders. He gave an involuntary shudder just at the thought of seeing one more of the behemoths. Paranoia seemed to float through the air here. He kept thinking an Ak-47 wielding insurgent would leap out from behind a bush and pump him full of hot lead. They pulled into Shirat and out climbed Trevor with his notepad and a ballpoint pen. As they walked to the building, Trevor took in a scene that belonged in a National Geographic exclusive. In just two days he had gone from the airy pinnacles of chrome and glass civilization and now walked amongst its lowly third.

The change was immense and was intriguing enough to distract him somewhat from his fear of being kidnapped. The bazaar radiated a thundering wall of noise and as he soaked in the scene that was to him, a unique experience, the troops led him through the thronging crowds. Interesting, he noted. Merely a week after a bloody fire fight and they act as if it never happened. But these are a resilient people, well-schooled in gritty toughness. With his limited Arabic, he heard snatches of conversation; a hello here A barter there. The intermixing colors and aromatic scents melded together into a piquant sweep of regional color, a world he had read about but never experienced.

A beggar lay sitting next to a rude lean-to. His toothless face and shredded clothing brought sympathy to Larson's heart. As they threaded past the pitiful sight, the man grabbed Trevor's pant-leg and uttered in a desperate voice," Please, for the love of Allah, some food, some food pleasse." The contractors, their weapons leveled, caused him to scurry away, but not before Trevor had given him a $20 bill. In fact, the locals seemed to throng around the soldiers more, smiled and waved hello to these men so alien to their way of life. Out of fear or respect Trevor could only guess. They now stood before the site of the massacre. The Rangers posted two guards outside the doors and the others went to strategic points from which they could rapidly pull out if the shit hit the fan. The troops and the colonel on charge of Camp Puff Adder had wondered why he had to go to the site. "They're all dead you know." "I need to see it to write on it." He had stayed adamant, and here he stood. They knew why he was here and they resented it, but as he had told the commandant, "this is my job." As a reporter Trevor required the personal touch of being in the element of what he wrote about. His best work originated from those times when we could see firsthand the gritty truth and his pen just did the rest.

The blood stains were a coppery brown in contrast to the magnificent sweep of colors on the prayer rug. The bare concrete walls were pocked with bullet holes and he could practically smell the fear and desperation in the air when calamity had struck. Why? Why would a man kill so readily? Especially one so supposedly well trained? His friends had been killed.. After the dust had settled, three insurgents and eleven civilians all laid in a shallow grave. A life ruined, a noble cause tainted. It was Faulknerian in noble tragedy, the continuation of a conflict that had raged unchecked since the days of Saladin. Two great colliding interests, forged in blood and bitter vendetta. It was one hell of a it was his! He picked up his notepad, now filled with insightful ideas and conciliatory sound bites.

Bleak walls, high ceilings and musty, nondescript portraits of the Commander-In-chief, Chairman of the Secretary of Staff and the Chief of Staff of the Army all looked damningly upon Staff Sergeant Colin Randolph. Decked out in his Class A dress green, blue cord and sandy Ranger's beret upon the table, the general court martial reviewed his actions upon the fateful day in Shirat. "Sergeant Randolph, you have refused legal counsel, are you sure this is how you want to go about this before we proceed?" Lieutenant Colonel James, the head of the reviewing board of the United States Army Court of Criminal Appeals queried. "Yes sir, I understand the repercussions of my actions." Randolph replied stonily. The man was everything he loathed about the Army, a flabby arrogant man who clearly knew nothing of combat, cowardly chickenshit to the max. Following these standard actions, the court administered the oath and the general courts martial settled into full swing.

While former comrades, his First Sergeant and CO from the 75th Ranger Regiment, 3rd Battalion, Bravo Company cited his excellent abilities as a fire team leader and exemplary record as a well as his steadfast and calm reaction under fire while operating out of FOB Puff Adder, Randolph studied the pudgy bureacrats' face and saw no flash of acknowledgment in his dead eyes. "Sergeant, it is stated here that this was your 9th deployment with the 75th Ranger Regiment, 3rd Battalion, Bravo Company, do you think that your high operational tempo could have resulted in your actions under fire that day?" Randolph responded quickly; "Sir, upon entering the ville, I neutralized a combatant who was guarding the door…" "Sergeant, please answer the question, with brevity." LTC James interjected sharply. "No sir, my operational tempo did not hinder my judgment at all that day, those men would not comply with my commands, I commanded clearly in Pashto to place their hands in the air, when they further ignored me and kept shouting over me, I saw several men reach underneath their burkhas.

I then reacted, neutralizing what I believed to be a threat. Looking back on my actions, I still stand by the belief that I reacted well within the use of force model in the given scenario. With my fellow Rangers dead, I was all alone and heavily outnumbered. The men continued to act with hostility even when I ordered them to place their hands in the air. Thus, I perceived it as an act to kill me with a hail of superior fire." LTC James fired right back, "Sergeant, isn't the use of force model built upon the bedrock principle that you are only allowed to respond on a level only one tier higher than your adversaries' actions? If what you're stating is true, these men were resisting but not assaultive. Thus how can you justify killing 11 men, village elders no less, when they were not assaulting you? Surely you must realize the impact this has on our work with the Afghan government, and our attempt to make the Pashtun support our mission?" Colonel Umstead a grizzled Vietnam LRRP veteran and the CO of Randolph's battalion stood, "Sir, your analysis of this situation is grossly unfair."

LTC James looked coldly at Colonel Umstead and said axiomatic arrogance, "Sir, witnesses aren't allowed to testify at this time." As the Colonel sat, Randolph caught a red gleam in his eye that only accompanied when a man was ready to kill without a moment's notice. No one spoke down to a LRRP hero and living legend like that and got away with it alive and unscathed. LTC James now refocused his raptor like gaze upon Randolph, "Sergeant, how can you justify your actions?" he stated in a wheedling tone. "Sir, I already have." Randolph replied evenly.

Morgan sat in his art deco office far above the squalor and desperation of the streets of Manhattan, poring over The New York Times. There it was on page 4, the fruit of his victory. Ranger Slays 11 in Village Raid, the title screamed. The diabolical machinations of Morgan's cunning mind churned with possibility, yet one simple fact vexed him. Where are those papers? He thought furiously. Without them, Operation Pheonix could not proceed. Equally terrifying was the prospect of the undermining and expose of Morgan and his associates.

The very nature of the plan rocked the world to the core, a total paradigm shift of world politics and policy, and to many a horrifying development, a return to a world of lords and barons, a pre-Magna Carta hell…To Morgan and his associates among the world's power elite, it was a beautiful thing. Though backed by some of the world's most powerful individuals, the repercussions were so horrifying for the common man, that if one man were compromised, all would shun him. The coup had to be executed silently, slowly, to succeed. In the fabled conference room on the hoary oak table of the Bilderberg Hotel, surrounded by some of the world's deadliest guns for hire, they had acquiesced to this plan. They had agreed that it was impossible to pull off without each other and the operation had to be executed insidiously, a slow toxin into the bloodstream of culture and society and economics.

Already, all around the world, agents were infiltrating agencies such as Interpol, the CIA, the FBI, MI6 and Mossad to begin pulling the levers to put it into place. The greatest issue was that it was still in in its infantile stages and prone to sabotage and now with the disappearance of the papers in Afghanistan, open to discovery. By nature, Morgan was a schemer and a manipulator. He had always believed that blood trails were messier and harder to expunge then destroying an opponents' life through blackmail and discrediting. It now dawned upon him; some men don't bow to blackmail, some men have to be killed to be kept silent. Looking intently at Randolph's picture in the Times, he thought coldly, this man needs to die.


End file.
